Two Hundred and Eighty Six Minutes
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". When Boyd gives chase to a young man he catches trying to break into his car, he has no idea of the trouble he's going to find himself in... Complete. T for language. B/G. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

**A/N:** _This was a bit of an experiment, tbh. Enjoy._  
><em>Many thanks to all those who put up with me, encourage me and make me laugh.<em>

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><p><strong>Two Hundred and Eighty-Six Minutes<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p>"Oh," Spencer's voice says, "and Grace wants to know when you'll be back here because she needs you to look at some stuff for the Hughes case."<p>

Heading back towards his car, Boyd swaps his phone to his right hand and glances irritably at his watch. A little past eleven on a distinctly cool spring morning. Too much to do and not enough time to do it in. As usual. Still walking, he says, "Mid-afternoon at the very earliest, Spence. Later if I get caught up with the CPS."

His subordinate's response is an easy, "No problem."

Yet again, they are over-stretched. The abrupt and unexpected departure of Kat Howard from the CCU's core investigative team is causing Boyd an administrative headache he neither wants nor needs. He's been told not to seek a replacement, to make do with the staff he has pending a forthcoming financial review of the unit, but he's used to having a dependable junior officer in the central team – they all are. Every day he finds less and less that he feels it's appropriate to delegate to relatively inexperienced support staff, and so here he is, a fully-fledged Detective Superintendent, commander of a highly specialised unit, out on the street doing the kind of leg-work even Spencer would normally complain vociferously about taking on.

In a way, though, harassed and tired as he is, Boyd isn't predisposed to complain too much about the unexpected freedom from his desk the situation is affording him. He's always been the kind of man to lead from the front, the kind of man who prefers to be right in the centre of the action, prefers to be involved in every aspect of an investigation. He far prefers driving round the capital for hours interviewing suspects and witnesses to spending a single morning at the Yard sitting through interminable policy meetings. Also, for some reason he rather likes this part of Woolwich, too; east of the Blackwall Tunnel, north of the Common. A little dilapidated – particularly the virtually derelict industrial estate on the north side of the road – but very… honest. Very real.

So very real, in fact, that as his car finally comes into view, Boyd also sees the scruffy, lanky young man who's apparently on the verge of putting a brick through the driver's window. It's territorial instinct rather than civic duty that makes him shout angrily and break into a run. He's a senior officer heading relentlessly towards retirement and physically chasing down petty criminals isn't high on his agenda, so as the startled miscreant starts to bolt away, Boyd drops his pace. Honour is satisfied. He's far too busy to bother with the effort and the paperwork, and no actual harm has been done. He has no intention of mounting a serious pursuit… not until the young man turns, smirks and makes a gesture universally classed as obscene.

It's tantamount to waving a red rag at an angry bull. The quickness and ferocity of Boyd's temper is legendary, and he's already stressed and bad-tempered. Adrenaline and aggression pour into him, and he's back in motion almost before he knows it – and this time he means business. He really means business. He may be thirty, maybe nearer forty years older than his quarry, but he's wily, experienced and almost certainly a lot more stubborn. Sadly, it's possible he may even be marginally fitter than the fleeing man, who already seems to be slowing. Scenting victory, Boyd puts his head down and concentrates on running. He isn't thinking, he's simply relying on pugnacity, instinct and training.

Ahead of him, his prey ducks swiftly into one of the boarded-up old warehouses that stand forlornly in the industrial wasteland like a row of rotten teeth, and with a touch of triumph, Boyd follows him. Experience is a wonderful thing. Flat out on open ground, he's ultimately at a significant disadvantage against the younger man no matter how obstinate he is, but in a confined space the odds in his favour are dramatically increased. One mistake, one hesitation is all it will take, and whether he bothers to make an arrest or not, Boyd has every intention of putting the fear of God into the would-be thief. If nothing else, it will make him feel better, put a spring back into his step for the rest of the day. Unworthy, maybe, but true.

Seeing his target dart up the internal staircase that he assumes leads up to office space, Boyd smiles grimly to himself. What he misses, though, as he surges belligerently forward, is the way the old wooden treads bow and protest under the younger man's weight. Boyd is on the stairs himself now, and he's not only a good deal heavier, but he's nowhere near as light on his feet. Pounding up the staircase, he hears the first warning, cracking sounds that indicate things could be about to go horribly wrong. He feels the sudden instability under his feet, too, and realises that the rotten treads are giving way under him. He's nearly at the top of the flight; very, very nearly. He grabs for the rusty handrail screwed to the block wall, imagining he can somehow use it to swing himself up the last few steps, and as he seizes hold, two things happen. The tread under his right foot finally snaps, and the rail breaks away from the wall.

Just for a moment, Boyd feels like he's free-falling. He's not – his foot has gone straight through the splintering wood, and his own weight is acting against him, the impetus causing a sudden sharp collision between the back of his head and the stairs as he plummets. And that's that. Game over.

-oOo-

An indeterminate amount of time later, he starts to become vaguely aware of a dull, grinding headache. A headache that only increases with his level of consciousness. Groggy and disorientated, Boyd blinks and shakes his head. It's a bad idea – the dull pain flares into a ferocious roar that only starts to calm when he closes his eyes tightly. Wisely, he waits for the worst of the pain to subside before experimentally opening his eyes a second time. There's nothing wrong with his memory, he decides – he knows exactly where he is, and he quite clearly remembers the moment the world seemed to collapse beneath him. His head hurts, his ribs hurt and his left wrist is suspiciously tender. Carefully, Boyd starts to sit up, and it's only then that his right leg starts to blaze with an excruciating, unholy agony that quite literally takes his breath away. The pain is so acute, so intense that it effortlessly eclipses everything else, and he can't bite back the involuntary yelp fast enough to stifle it completely.

For several moments he remains absolutely still, jaw clenched hard against the roaring assault on his nervous system. He thinks he's probably broken his leg, and the strongest emotion that wells inside him at the thought is angry frustration. He simply can't afford such an injury, not when the unit is already struggling for manpower. Finally, the pain starts to recede. Infinitely more carefully, Boyd edges himself slowly into a more upright position, hoping to be able to survey the damage. It's not actually clear whether his leg is broken or not, because he simply can't see anything of it from mid-thigh down – his leg has followed his foot through the rotten, broken stair and it certainly looks as if it's tightly wedged in place. He's not keen to attempt movement to test the theory. Not keen at all.

Naturally stoical when it comes to illness and injury, Boyd is not given to panic or overreaction. He's not naïve and he's certainly not fainthearted about things. Keeping very still, he takes a moment to listen hard for any sign of movement. He suspects – rightly – that the man he was chasing is long gone, but he still takes the time to listen carefully. No sound comes to him that could be ascribed to human activity in the immediate vicinity. He can hear the distant sound of traffic, the perpetual hum of the city, but nothing that suggests there is anyone close to offer him any assistance. Boyd makes the decision. He clenches his jaw again and sits up properly. The pain is bad, very bad, but this time he expects it and somehow manages to ride it through until it once again settles to mere background agony.

The news is not good. His leg is definitely trapped, but it isn't just held in the improvised vice of the broken stair, it's pinioned in place by a thick, brutal splinter of wood that seems to have impaled him four inches above the knee. How deep into his leg the sharp spike of timber goes Boyd has no idea, but he doubts attempting to wrench it free is a good idea, even if it's actually possible. The words 'femoral artery' start to drum insistently in his head as he grimly surveys the damage. He's done enough first aid training over the course of his long career to instantly recognise an injury that requires expert external intervention. So be it.

Cautiously, aware of the dull aching in his ribs, Boyd reaches into his jacket pocket for his phone. Nothing. Frowning, he tries the other pocket. Nothing. Heart sinking, he moves on to the inside pockets. No phone. No wallet and no warrant card, either. Robbed. Obviously. He can feel the hard, uncomfortable contours of keys digging against his hip, and he's grateful for that, at least. His jacket, though, has been thoroughly rifled and emptied. A quick glance at his wrist confirms what he darkly suspects – his heavy, expensive designer watch has gone, too.

Boyd's first instinct is to rage and for a moment he does just that, shouting and cursing, hoping against hope that someone – anyone – will hear him. It's an exercise in absolute futility. All he succeeds in doing is making his pounding headache worse and exacerbating the edge of dizziness and nausea threatening to overtake him. Stubbornly, and simply on principle he rages loudly for a just little longer before finally subsiding into bleak, contemplative silence.

-oOo-

They will find him, he knows that. Once his colleagues realise he's missing, they will find him, and once they actively start looking it probably won't take them long to do so. They'll trace his movements, find his car and then check the CCTV footage for the area. They'll attempt to trace his phone, too, and he hopes, grimly, that they succeed. Boyd's got a few choice words to say to the young man who's run off with his watch, his wallet and everything else of any value. None of them polite. What's causing a settling depression inside him is the bleak knowledge that it could be a considerable amount of time before anyone realises he's not where he should be. Even then, they won't necessarily act immediately – he's their boss, after all, and he doesn't have to account to them for his movements. There's a chance that even when it starts to dawn on them that he's not back in the office they will simply assume he's taken off somewhere on a whim without bothering to share the information with anyone.

_It __could __be __bloody __hours,_ he thinks darkly. _Fucking __great. __Just__… __great..._

The pain in his leg is just about bearable if he remains absolutely still. It's not good, but it's bearable. Tentatively, Boyd reaches down with exploratory fingers, ignoring the primitive, fearful clenching in his stomach. There's not much blood and certainly not much fresh blood, but he can't actually bring himself to touch the piece of wood spearing his thigh. Even looking at it sends a nauseous shudder through him. At least there's no bloodied spike protruding from the other side of his leg. That he's aware of, at least.

Leaning his shoulder against the cold concrete wall, Boyd wonders how much time has already passed since his telephone conversation with Spencer Jordan. Not nearly enough. He doubts he was unconscious for very long – a few minutes at most – and he suspects he's already over-estimated the time since he became fully aware of his predicament. The unpalatable truth is that no-one's coming to find him any time soon.

_Grin __and __bear __it, __Peter,_ he tells himself brusquely. _They__'__ll __come __in __the __end, __you __know __they __will._

They will. Of course they will. He knows he's difficult, knows he often infuriates his subordinates, just as knows that there have been times when he's pushed each and every one of them far too far, but he also knows that they respect him. He isn't paid to be liked or likeable, but he thinks the members of the CCU team he works closest with have a certain – grudging – affection for him, one that will prompt them to search just that little bit harder and faster. They _will_ find him.

-oOo-

It's not the warmest of days, and the damp chill of the derelict building starts to claw into him with increasing ferocity as the time drags past. As his body temperature slowly drops Boyd starts to shiver, and the involuntary motion causes a flurry of tiny, agonising shockwaves up and down his injured leg, compounding his misery. The thudding headache has retreated and become a dull snarl, but that's not much consolation; the rest of him is definitely stiffening up in response to both his injuries and his enforced immobility. Morbidly, he starts to wonder about the possible implications of his impalement. He speculates on things he doesn't know enough about – blood poisoning, nerve damage, loss of circulation.

_Keep __calm, __idiot,_ he orders himself. _Stop __bloody __catastrophising. __You__'__re __going __to __be __fine. __A __few __stitches __and __a __course __of __antibiotics. __This __time __tomorrow __you__'__ll __be __sitting __at __your __desk __grumbling __about __the __amount __of __pain __you__'__re __in, __and __Grace __will __be __telling __you __to __shut __up __and __take __your __pills__…_

Grace. Of course he thinks about Grace. She's never very far from his thoughts wherever he is, whatever he's doing. Quite apart from anything else, Grace may be his best hope for early rescue. It's highly likely she will call him at some point during the day, and when she doesn't hear from him she will call again and again until her suspicions are sufficiently raised, and then she will speak to Spencer and between them they will eventually decide to risk his ire and start trying to trace him. It's just possible the matter's already in hand. Possible… but unlikely.

She usually calls him eventually when one or other of them are out of the office for an extended period of time. Boyd thinks it's probably a female thing, a need to maintain contact. She's not obsessive about it, and he tends to find it more amusing than infuriating, but today… today he prays for it. At first she will assume he's too busy to answer, but when she tries and tries again and gets no response Grace will act… at least, that's what Boyd is counting on. Surely she will act? She knows he won't persistently ignore her… doesn't she?

He casts his mind back over the last twenty-four, forty-eight hours, checking carefully. There have been no spats, no misunderstandings, no harsh words. Quite the contrary, in fact. There is no reason why Grace wouldn't call, no reason why he wouldn't answer her if she did. Everything's going to be all right, all he has to do is wait. Patience is not his forte, but in this instance he has very little choice. Chilled to the bone, Boyd wraps his arms around himself, leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes.

-oOo-

Behind closed doors, she's incredibly mischievous. It's something he would never have predicted, despite the amount of time he's known her. In fact, there are times that she's not just mischievous, but undeniably wicked. Boyd likes it. He likes it a lot. They are very different people in very many ways, but there are tiny islands of common ground between them, little places here and there where they are actually very alike, and that… wickedness… is one of them. He teases, she torments. It makes for some interesting moments. Not all of them suitable for the public domain. She's fearless, too, and capable of being just as lascivious and hedonistic as he is. It's all good, and long may it continue.

Boyd is not the sort of man who generally wastes much time in the contemplation of the future. The past dogs him relentlessly, and the career he's carved out for himself necessitates a close working relationship with the present. There isn't much space in his head for the future. To him, it's a nebulous and slightly frightening place of shadows and unformed shapes, a place that's creeping up on him rather faster than he's comfortable with. He's past the mandatory retirement age for lower ranks already, and that's not a thought he enjoys. Seniority allows him a few more years in harness, but he knows his time's rapidly running out. Sooner rather than later he will be a retired police officer looking back at his life in bewilderment, wondering how so much time passed so very quickly.

There's an unexpected bright spot on Peter Boyd's horizon, though. Grace Foley. He doesn't dwell on the thought too much – afraid, perhaps that by doing so he might cause some kind of jinx – but there's a touch of hope in him that the future might not quite be as lonely and unfulfilled as he's always imagined it will be. He's beginning to suspect that if he plays his cards right Grace will be right there with him in that unformed future. The future seems a long way off at that particular moment, however, and the present is interminably bleak.

Boyd is very, very cold now, and his trapped leg is completely numb. That scares him a little – makes him start to worry about loss of circulation and the possible consequences of it. The relief from the nagging, background pain is welcome, though. If he moves, the agony roars back, just as hot, just as fierce, but if he stays absolutely still, he feels nothing in that leg, not even the agonising pins and needles that briefly drove him demented.

Grace will find him, if no-one else does. Grace will find him because for some crazy, incomprehensible reason, she loves him. He's come to terms with that. Slowly and in his own time, just as she presumably knew he would. That _he_ loves _her_ isn't in question. He knows he does. It's a potentially dangerous weakness that he didn't invite, but Boyd's grudgingly learning to live with it. Damned woman got under his skin, inch by inch, year by year, stealing her way in so gradually that he simply didn't notice until it was far, far too late.

He tries to calculate the time, but without any stable point of reference, it's an impossible task. The stairwell is no more or less gloomy now than it was when he first attempted to ascend it. He can't see any windows, above or below, can't see the cold spring sky. Time is becoming a faintly abstract concept. He thinks he's hungry, thinks he's thirsty, but he's not sure – either or both could just be phantoms of the faint nausea he still feels. He wonders if it's been minutes, hours or days since he ran into the warehouse and straight into trouble.

-oOo-

"Fucking great," he growls. Talking to himself is marginally therapeutic, Boyd has discovered. It breaks the clinging silence, connects him to the real world beyond the stairwell. The cause of his complaint is at the foot of the stairs watching him with dark, beady eyes. He hates rats. Despises them. He's too often seen what rats can do to a dead body. Malevolent, insidious little bastards. On his own property, he unashamedly wages war on them, laying poison in the shed and the garage. Nor is he above taking pot-shots at them with the air-rifle that was – in hindsight – a very unwise gift for an eight-year old boy. One that caused a lot of marital dissent and several broken windows before he summarily confiscated it amid the inevitable howls of protest.

Time has given Boyd some insight into his fraught relationship with his only child. He thinks now that much of the friction came from the unpalatable truth that he and his son were simply too alike to coexist peacefully under the same roof. The difficult child became a sullen, unmanageable teenager – every bit as obstinate, spiky and quick-tempered as his dad, but with none of the restraints imposed by time, discipline and experience. A young hellion, genetically programmed to challenge his alpha male father at every possible turn.

The rat advances cautiously, standing up on its back legs, scenting the air. Aside from the keys in his pocket, Boyd has nothing to hurl at the scavenger, so he settles for banging his fist down hard on the stairs and bellowing, "Fuck off, you little bastard."

It works. Scared by the noise and the movement, the rat darts away into the shadows, but in a way that's worse – Boyd knows it's there somewhere, but can no longer keep a wary eye on it. He hates rats. He really hates rats. They tap into some deep, primeval fear rooted in human instincts born way back in the mists of time. Where there's one, there's more. The thought causes an involuntary shudder down his spine, a shudder intensified by the sudden thought that perhaps they're already beneath him, under the stairs. Perhaps they already see him as carrion. Perhaps they won't actually bother to wait for him to die before starting to gnaw experimentally on the vulnerable limb hanging uselessly out of sight.

It's the stuff of nightmares.

"Get a grip," Boyd says into the silent, empty air. But he knows the rats are down there somewhere.

-oOo-

There's a place just beneath the gentle curve between her neck and her shoulder and just above her collarbone that quietly obsesses him. There's nothing exceptional about that place. It's soft and warm, and her perfume tends to linger there, but Boyd couldn't begin to explain to anyone why he invariably fixates on it. By nature, he's a leg man. His tastes tend to run to females of the long-legged and nubile variety. A good pair of legs guarantees a second look. Throw in a bunch of curves and pair of high heels, and he's pretty much lost. Boyd knows it, Grace knows it. She'll shake her head at him and give him that long-suffering look that tells him it's definitely time to stop looking. She always notices him noticing, but that's okay – she's made it very clear that the very last thing she wants him to be is an obedient lapdog.

It amuses him occasionally, though, just to lie quietly with his head in her lap watching her solemnly as she tries to make sense of him. He enjoys being contrary, contradictory. He has no problem whatsoever with being a creature of varied extremes, particularly if it causes consternation in those around him. He's learned to play mercilessly on his reputation for being volatile and capricious, and he's found it's often a positive advantage to be known as wildly unpredictable. Grace predicts him. Grace predicts him as easily as a sailor predicts the tides. In a way, that's an advantage, too. Sometimes.

Boyd wonders if she's on her way. If they are all on their way. He's very stiff now, both from the cold and the enforced immobility, and he's beginning to question his ability to endure to the very end of this unexpected ordeal. There doesn't seem to be much of him – apart from his numb right leg – that doesn't ache unbearably. The pain in his right hip is slowly becoming a truly unpleasant focus. Unable to move his leg at all, he finds he can get a brief respite from the pain by leaning his weight fractionally to the left, but the pain caused by the pressure it puts on the hefty splinter impaling his thigh is too much to bear for more than a few seconds.

There are thirteen stairs. Boyd is trapped on the ninth and tenth. There are fifteen screw holes in the block wall that used to support the broken-away handrail. It irritates him that he can't turn far enough to count the concrete blocks properly, but not as much as it irritates him that one of the layers of cement is a fraction thicker than the others, as if that course of blocks was shoddily laid by an apprentice. He wants to rip the wall down and rebuild it just to eliminate that jarringly thick layer of cement. Boyd is something of a perfectionist about such things, as his father was before him.

-oOo-

"I'm going to buy a bloody terrier," Boyd tells the scuffling rats, even though he can't see them. "Then we'll see who has the last fucking laugh."

They had a dog once. A big, shaggy thing with deep, soulful brown eyes. Mary's dog. Consolation prize for the miscarriage that broke both their hearts when they were still young and blissfully in love. She wanted the damned dog, so he bought it for her. Anything to see her smile again. It used to chew his shoes and shed hairs on his clothes. And who was it who ended up trudging round the streets with it in the rain every night? Mary's poor bloody husband, obviously. The one who was so tired most of the time he could sleepwalk his way to the park and back in even the very worst weather without even noticing it. And then along came the boy and suddenly the dog was just as much unwanted and in the way as Mary's exhausted, hard-working spouse. Which at least created a sympathetic bond of sorts between man and beast. Then the dog got hit by a car one Sunday morning and the resulting row lasted the better part of ten years.

Pretty girl, though. Woman. Whatever. Great legs. Bewitching smile. Boyd hasn't seen her since their son's funeral. Doesn't think he'll ever see her again. Won't lose any sleep over it.

It wasn't Mary who sat with him through that long, brutal night after the boy's coffin went into the cold wet ground. Wasn't Mary who kept his glass full, who silently held him and stroked his hair so, so gently. Wasn't Mary who stayed at his side through the tears and tantrums, who held onto him tightly when he thought he was falling unstoppably into dark oblivion. Of course it wasn't Mary.

Those were bad days. Bad days and worse nights.

She said he'd get through it, and in the end he did. She's very wise.

Boyd wishes he'd met her years ago. He wishes he were a better man.

Most of all he wishes he wasn't trapped in a cold, derelict stairwell in the middle of nowhere.

-oOo-

He's heard about animals caught in traps who chew through their own limbs to escape. He's read about those stupidly heroic people who eventually amputate bits of their own anatomy to attain freedom from whatever adversity they've encountered. Peter Boyd is not one of those people. True, Grace often accuses him of having a nascent hero complex, but he's not the sort of man who believes in the purifying qualities of physical suffering. Besides, he's in London, not the bloody Outback, and sooner or later they will find him. He's not going to chop his own bloody leg off. Even if he had the means. Which he doesn't.

The thoughts lead him inexorably to a place he doesn't want to visit, a place populated by dozens of 'what ifs?'. What if they don't come in time? What if he's already in far more trouble than he realises? What if…

Boyd shakes his head. Bad idea. The headache bites back at him, adding to his wretchedness.

He's sick of the sight of concrete blocks. They are grey, rectangular and boring. He estimates each block is perhaps eight inches high by sixteen inches long. He wonders if they are solid, or whether they contain voids. There's not much more to look at. Just the broken handrail that's tumbled to the foot of the stairs, the stairs themselves and the leg that isn't trapped. Even the view from his office is more interesting, despite the lack of external windows. Actually, the view from his office is considerably more interesting, given that he's able to look straight through the glass partition into Grace's office. And he has possession of the blinds, neatly preventing her from deliberately obscuring his view. Privilege of rank.

Surely she's on her way?

Unless she hasn't felt the need to call him and no-one's yet aware that he's missing.

Not a pleasant thought. How long has he been here, stuck like a rat in a trap?

Poor choice of simile, Boyd thinks, listening to the tiny, sinister noises of the rodents scurrying around under the stairs. He wonders what it would take to elevate his twitchy dislike into a full-blown phobia, and he thinks of Eve and her body farm. There's something… not quite right… about a woman who so thoroughly enjoys the company of rotting corpses. And rats. And insects. She's a definite asset to the unit, though. And Grace likes her. Perhaps because she's a little older than her two predecessors, a little more worldly. Well, if Eve's in the rescue party that eventually turns up, she can coo over the damned rats all she likes for all Boyd cares. Just as long as he doesn't have to watch.

-oOo-

He's very definitely thirsty now. Conversely, the increasing pressure on his bladder is becoming uncomfortable. Things are just getting better and better. This is not a day Boyd is going to remember with affection. And it started so well, too. Incredibly well, in fact. Then, in his view there's always a lot to be said for starting the day by –

Boyd snorts to himself. It's hardly an appropriate time or place to be thinking about such things. It seems incongruous to him that just hours ago – though how many hours ago he isn't sure – he was lying in a soft, comfortable bed with a very warm and very willing woman in his arms and now… now he is stuck in some kind of nightmarish limbo with nothing to do but wait for someone to find him. His back's hurting now, too, just to add insult to injury, the old wound complaining bitterly in response to his stillness. This is purgatory. Pure purgatory.

The frustration that has been ebbing and flowing in him suddenly swells intolerably. Boyd does not think, he just suddenly lashes out at the concrete wall with a tightly-balled fist. Maybe his knuckles fracture, maybe they don't, but the pain is instant and ferocious, screaming up his arm and into his shoulder, and it gives him an excuse to bellow angrily. Rage and pain roil inside him, and for one stupid, crazy second he's tempted just to use every ounce of strength to rip himself free from the imprisoning spike keeping him in place. Common-sense stops him just in time. However bad his position, risking a major haemorrhage is just insane. Better a live jackal than a dead lion, isn't that what they say?

It doesn't stop him roaring and swearing and kicking out blindly at nothing with his other foot.

And then – impossibly – there's an answering shout, a very familiar voice that calls loudly, "Boyd…?"

Spencer. Fucking Spencer. Fucking wonderful Spencer. Thank all the powers…

-oOo-

Spencer appears through the doorway that leads into the stairwell, a solid, stocky figure in an expensive leather jacket and dark jeans. He stares up, expression bewildered, and simply says, "Christ…"

Instinct makes Boyd immediately bark down at his subordinate, "Don't move, Spence."

The younger man freezes instantly. "Sir…?"

"Stairs are shagged," Boyd tells him curtly. "They won't take your weight."

The reply is immediate and pragmatic. "How bad are you hurt?"

Boyd doesn't question the automatic assumption that he's injured. Unsurprisingly succinct, he reports, "Leg's pretty busted up. There's a bloody great splinter of wood stuck in it."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

Spencer produces his phone, glances at it and announces, "No signal. Hang in there, buddy. I'll go and makes some calls."

As rescues go, it's a bit of an anti-climax, all things considered.

-oOo-

It's Grace, not Spencer, who appears at the foot of the stairs several long minutes later. Her expression is tightly composed as she looks up at him, only a certain wary look in her eyes betraying any hint of fear and anxiety. Her voice is equally as calm, equally as controlled as she says, "Paramedics and the Fire Brigade are both on their way. Spence is waiting for them out on the road."

Wisely, Boyd bites back a sardonic response to the news. Instead, he asks, "You okay?"

Her answering snort says everything. "I'm fine. You're the one who's in trouble – again."

"I met with a bit of an accident."

"So I gather. How bad…?"

"Pretty bad," he admits. "Few inches higher and I would've been singing soprano for the rest of my bloody life."

"Ouch."

Banter. It's the best way they know to deal with things, and they've had a long, long time to perfect it. He can read that look in her eyes, though. Can read it easily. As she starts to move, he snaps brusquely, "Don't."

Like Spencer before her, she freezes. Unlike Spencer, Grace immediately looks wounded. It tears at him, not just because he hates to see that look of confused hurt, but because just at that moment there's very little in the world he could possibly want more than her presence, her reassurance. Gruffly, he continues, "The stairs aren't safe. As I found out the hard way."

"Boyd…"

"Stay there," he instructs her. "For God's sake, Grace – just for once will you do as you're told?"

He sees the way her chin lifts the tiniest fraction in defiance, and, yes, he loves her for it. She glares up at him, and he has no compunction about glaring back – anything to stop her trying to make the treacherous ascent. She says, "So if that was me up there, you'd be hovering about down here doing nothing, would you?"

Damn. Boyd changes tactics immediately. "You know I wouldn't, but then according to you I'm a reckless idiot who acts first and asks questions later, regardless of the possible consequences."

The look she gives him suggests there will be words about this later, but to his immense relief she finally steps back a fraction. There's a moment of tense, loaded silence, then she says, "We traced your phone. Spencer has a young man in custody you might like to have a chat with at some point."

"Good," Boyd says with a touch of savage pleasure. "Little bastard had it away with my wallet, my warrant card – everything."

"Luckily for you, he hadn't got round to getting rid of the phone and he'd kept your warrant card as a souvenir. Detective Superintendent."

He grimaces. "Go on, rub it in. I was out cold at the time."

"We assumed you were, since he still had all his teeth."

Boyd manages a weary sort of grin. Something occurs to him, and he asks, "What time is it?"

Grace glances at her watch with a slight frown. "Almost four o'clock."

"Christ. Time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it? Nearly five hours I've been stuck here."

Something cold and fearful flits momentarily across her face, as if she, too, is wondering about the implications for his trapped leg. It's not something he needs to see in her – fear – and perhaps she realises it, because she quickly says, "I'll go and see if there's any sign of the ambulance…"

He's tempted to let her, knowing it will be far better for both his equanimity and hers if they are apart, but he's been alone – and scared – for too long. Before he can choke it back, he hears his own voice say, "Stay with me."

She looks up at him, surprise giving way to concern, to compassion. "Okay."

The defences are starting to crumble whether he likes it or not. "It hurts, Grace. I'm so cold and I'm in so much fucking pain up here…"

She looks stricken, desperate, but her voice is strong and firm. "Just hold on a bit longer, Boyd. The paramedics will give you some morphine as soon as they get here."

"Stay," he says again, stubborn and childlike.

"I will," she promises him. "I will."

-oOo-

Just as Grace promised, there is morphine. There is morphine and it's good. The pain goes away and the world becomes a much happier, gentler place. He drifts through most of the rescue operation, only peripherally aware of the activity around him, but he knows Grace keeps her promise. Every time he looks, there she is at the bottom of the stairs, refusing to be ushered away. Now and again she smiles at him, and he thinks he probably smiles back. The pain only jolts back into him when they finally start manoeuvring him down the hazardous stairs and he can't stop himself letting loose with a round of cursing that brings grins to the faces of his rescuers.

"Coppers are always the worst," one of the paramedics wryly says to one of the firemen.

Spencer is amongst the knot of people he's passed down to, and morphine or not, Boyd hears him say, "You could do with losing some weight, buddy, you know that?"

He's sure it's a deliberate taunt. Infuriated, he growls, "Fucking cheeky bastard…"

One of the firemen asks mildly, "Is he always like this?"

"Nope," Spencer says. "Usually he's much worse."

Maybe they give him some more morphine, Boyd isn't sure, but again the pain retreats, and everything takes on a cloudy, bendy, surreal sort of quality. Faces loom and are gone. Words swim sluggishly past him. He likes the warmth of the blankets, thinks it would be nice just to go to sleep.

"Blood pressure's a bit low," someone nearby says. "But he'll be fine. They'll take him straight into surgery…"

That doesn't sound like something he wants to hear, but in all honesty he's too warm and too weary to care. Grace is still there, just beyond the shoulders of the paramedics, so there's not much wrong with his world. Everything's okay.

They take him out of the stairwell and out of the building, and the spring sky is sullen and grey with the light cold drizzle that's falling. But after the grim stairwell, that's okay, too.

-oOo-

The next thing Boyd is properly conscious of is the room where he wakes up. Small, white, brightly lit. He's warm, and he's surprisingly comfortable. Life is good. Grace comes into view. Life is better. Rather stupidly, he says, "Hello."

"Hello," she says solemnly, but then she smiles, and call him an old fool who should know better, but it warms him from the inside, too. She says, "Looks like you live to fight another day."

"Tough as old boots," he tells her. "Are they going to operate?"

Her smile doesn't abate. "Keep up, Boyd. It's all over and done."

Surprised, he frowns. "Really?"

"Really. They took a nine-inch splinter of wood out of your thigh last night."

"Last night?"

"Mm hmm. Good news or bad news first?"

"Oh, God," he says, thinking about it. Just to be contrary, he says, "Good news."

She looks down at him. "The good news is you didn't break your leg – just a few cuts and bruises and some muscle strains. The bad news is you're stuck in here for a few days. There's still a risk of septicaemia, so they're keeping you under observation. Oh, and you have a minor concussion, a sprained wrist and a couple of broken knuckles. Otherwise you're fighting fit."

"Yeah, I really feel it."

Grace settles onto the chair next to his bed. "There's something I really have to ask."

"Go on…?"

"When you were in the ambulance, why on earth were you raving on and on about rats…?"

Boyd shudders despite himself. "Long story, Grace."

"I somehow thought it might be."

-oOo-

**EPILOGUE**

Indomitable. It's an appropriate sort of word, Grace thinks. Not that he hasn't moaned and groaned incessantly about the pain, the discomfort and the sheer inconvenience, but he's a man and therefore such complaints are only to be expected. And patiently endured. Rather unfortunately, the combination of the dark, puppy-dog eyes and the long-legged limp have had a catastrophic effect on her determined vow not to be taken advantage of during his – inevitably bad-tempered – convalescence. Boyd is utterly ruthless in his exploitation of her weakness, though, and far too congenitally lazy to do anything for himself that he can persuade her to do for him. She's well-used to the dichotomy – at work he is energetic, hard-working and motivated; at home he is languorous and thoroughly indolent, given half a chance.

"Now," she says, looking down at him with a mock-glare, "you're just taking the piss."

"Doctor Foley, I'm shocked. Both by your language and your accusation."

"I've been running round after you for days," she points out. "Pandering to your every whim – "

He grins at her. "Not to my _every_ whim."

Ignoring him, Grace continues, "And now your libido has perked up, you still expect me to do all the work? You're outrageous, Boyd."

"So harsh, Grace. So, so harsh. All I said was – "

"I know what you said. We should have a serious chat about your idea of a romantic seduction at some point."

His gaze flicks pointedly towards his hips. "Are you jumping aboard or not?"

Grace surveys him. Flat out on her bed, hands behind his head, dishevelled and unshaven and still looking more than a little bruised and battered round the edges. The expression is beautifully sombre, but the dark eyes are laughing gently at her. He's very naked and very handsome. And completely incorrigible. She thinks that perhaps one day in the far distant future she'll just grab him by the scruff of the neck and march him forcibly up the aisle, kicking and screaming if necessary. She sighs heavily. "You're so damned lazy…"

Boyd grins again, this time deliberately baring his teeth. "Tell me that again in half an hour…"

"Oh, God… you're not planning on doing it twice, are you?"

Grace thoroughly believes in having the last word. Though he does look appealingly vulnerable and could certainly get away with a lot more than he actually realises. But she's got no intention of telling him so.

- the end -


End file.
